Weak | S.R

Spencer

And again.

I call her so many times and get voicemail each time.

I text her again.

Please call me, it's important.

I really need to talk to you.

Allie, please call me.

Please pick up the phone.

My chest gets heavier when I see that she's reading each message and not responding.

This goes on for my entire week back home. I couldn't even call her to say wish her a merry Christmas. Her gift is still sat on my desk, wrapped up nicely.

Then... no answers on New Years... no midnight kiss.

The depression was barely tolerable while I was in Vegas, but now that I'm back in DC and alone in my apartment... it's taking quite the toll on me. I'm sleeping nearly all day and barely eating or drinking anything.

A phone number pops into my mind, one that I haven't called in nearly twelve years.

"Fuck," I sigh, picking up my phone and looking down at the dial pad, debating what my next move should be. I dial the number, hoping that it's out of service.

"Hello?" The familiar voice registers in my ear. "Who's calling?"

"Louie? I... um, Spencer, about twelve years ago you...filled my prescriptions?" I try to say it with confidence, but no such luck. "Do you still-"

"The agent, right? You never ratted me out, I really owe you one," Louie's New York accent is even more thick than it was back then.

"I keep my promises," I say matter-of-factly.

"It was hydromorphone, right? Dilaudid?" He asks. "Is that what you're looking for, or you in the market for something else?"

"That's... that's correct," I nod, noticing that my leg has started shaking from the anxiety I'm experiencing.

"Half-mil, one, or two?"

"Half."

"One hundred even. Cash. I can meet you now where we used to meet up. Say, twenty minutes?"

"Okay, okay. I'll be there. Thank you."

I hang up the phone and rush to get some shoes on before grabbing one hundred dollars in twenties out of my safe and heading out.

When the tiny bottle hits my hand, I already feel guilty. When I walk into Walgreens to buy insulin syringes, I feel even worse, making up a bullshit story about how my mother is diabetic and even giving them specific doses so they'd believe me.

When I get home, I sit down on my bed, setting the bag of syringes and the bottle down in front of me.

I need to call Allie, I think to myself as I grab my phone out of my pocket. I call three times and get no answer, feeling my heart shatter as the all too familiar voicemail greeting plays.

'Hi, it's Allie! Leave me a message!'

"Allie, it's me again. I..." My eyes lock onto the tiny glass bottle. "I miss you and I love you. I love you so much, Alexandria. Please pick up the phone." I pick up the bottle and stare down at it. "I'm sorry. Please call me back."

I hang up the phone and set it down before running to grab the tourniquet out of my first aid kit in the kitchen.

After getting everything open and ready, I pull the tourniquet onto my arm.